


The Devil in your Bleeding Face

by Lestradesexwife



Series: These Blackest of Years [2]
Category: Cthulhu Mythos - H. P. Lovecraft, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Comeplay, He has magical powers., John is an Ancient one, M/M, Magical Realism, Mentions of spousal abuse, Oral Sex, Sherlock is too perceptive for his own good., loss of tentacles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-29 09:22:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1003711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lestradesexwife/pseuds/Lestradesexwife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock figures out that something is different about John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to Whispered Memories... and will make a hell of a lot more sense if you have read that...
> 
> BUT... please heed the warnings on Whispered Memories... it... IS TENTACLE MASTURBATION. And possibly dubcon.

There’s a ripple that comes from John Watson, usually when Sherlock has done something noteworthy. A stone dropped into the centre of a still pool of water, swallowed immediately and without comment, the ripples never rebounding back on themselves, followed by deeper stillness. There is _something_ there, something that Sherlock can’t place. Whenever he looks directly at the problem his mind fills with irrelevancies, catalogues all of the things that he _does_ know about John Hamish Watson.

****

John is currently pretending to read the newspaper. Sherlock can feel the tension, the expectation, that comes when John is waiting for Sherlock to say something, the desperate hope that Sherlock will give him a pass, just this once.

****

“What _are_ you hiding from me, John?” Pitched _just so_ , the near conspiratorial tone that makes John’s pulse quicken and the tiniest flush of colour rise in his cheeks. Unseen behind the paper.

****

The corner of the paper flicks down and John graces Sherlock with one of his many long-suffering looks. “You _gave_ me those cigarettes and told me to keep them from you. You know where they are if you want them.” He shakes the paper out and returns to waiting for Sherlock to drop the other shoe.

****

“The jumpers purchased for you by your _women friends_ are always two sizes too large.” Sherlock wonders how these women can hope to have any claim on John at all, when they can’t even make an _educated_ guess on the size of his shirts. Although he’s noticed a trend, when asked for descriptors of John, most people seem to assume he is slightly out of shape, short and dumpy. Only proving that everyone is an idiot. John is lean, trim and more muscular than Sherlock.

****

John refuses to rise to the bait, not even so much as a twitch of the paper. Sherlock can picture him on the other side of his fragile barrier: lips tight, eyes pressed shut waiting for the punchline. Sherlock waits until John is forced to turn the page of the paper or give up all pretense of reading. “I can’t picture you naked.”

****

John shakes the paper but doesn’t lower it. “That’s good to know. Neither can any of my _former_ women friends thanks to you. Perhaps you are immune to my more manly attributes.”

****

Sherlock closes his eyes, the after-image of John’s paper burned into his retinas giving him the perfect backdrop to replay several of his favourite sexual fantasies involving John. Attempting to remove John’s trousers or shirt in every case results in John’s form vanishing from Sherlock’s imagination. Only the firm thought of John fully clothed allows him to continue the fantasy. It is problematic, but Sherlock has developed several workarounds that have been quite satisfying, although there is something incomplete about it. Sherlock can’t place the sensation, the lack that has nothing to do with John’s skin. “Not immune... no. Perhaps... overly hasty in my initial negotiations of our relationship.”

****

John’s fingers are tight on the paper, tiny points of stress forming along the edges where he grips it; balanced on the knife edge between crumpling it into a ball and tearing it in half. “If you mean that bit where you turned me down flat... that wasn’t a negotiation. _That_ was a firing squad.”

****

“Hmm... Yes. Hasty on my part, as I said. I’m willing to reopen the conversation and admit my mistake if you like.”

****

“Still not gay, Sherlock.”

****

“I believe the term is situational homosexual. You aren’t actually making any effort to maintain a relationship with your... women. You merely want to be seen to be making the effort. If I believed in any of that drivel the argument could be made that we are soul mates. Perfect for each other in every regard. The gentials are secondary to that, surely?”

****

The paper crumples. “Did you just ask me to fuck you?”

****

“Crude.” Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “And I was rather hoping for... a more mutual arrangement. I can be... versatile.” The look in John’s eyes makes Sherlock want to crawl across the floor and prove how versatile he is, but John still hasn’t said yes.

****

“Oh... _Jesus_.” John looks down at the paper in his lap and huffs out a laugh. “You have...” The paper is straightened, the ruined landscape, unreadable, resumes its secondary nature as barrier to Sherlock’s gaze.

****

Sherlock thinks that might be the end of it, watches as John holds his ground; something different, typically if John is going to reject Sherlock he will storm out, head to a pub or a museum, anywhere Sherlock isn’t. The barrier remains but so does John, Sherlock is content to wait this out.

****

“It’s a side effect of the glamour... you not being able to imagine me naked.” John shifts the paper, pulling it tighter. “I’m... not entirely human... and my true form tends to bring out the mobs with pitchforks and torches.”

****

Sherlock’s heart contracts, leaps against his ribcage. “There is no need to mock me, John. A simple no would suffice.”

****

“I’m... actually not. Mocking you... or saying no. God help me, I should. I, _Jesus_ , the things I want though, Sherlock... they aren’t... I can’t just take them.” John’s feet shift, the first bodily motion he’s made so far, an abortive attempt to bolt perhaps. “I’m a third generation descendant of... well the Ancient Ones. With most people it is easy to blend in, they actively aren’t looking for anything different about me. They decide not to believe in monsters, and ignore anything that... disagrees with that.”

****

“I think I would have noticed... _oh_ but I did...” Sherlock is impatient, needing to see John. He wants to stand, pull the paper from John’s hands and demand the answers. Demand to _see_.

****

“I... I thought you weren’t interested... so I didn’t bother filling in the glamour.” The edge of the paper trembles. “I can make you forget about it... if you’d rather not know.” He closes the paper, levels his best, _it is all fine_ look at Sherlock. “It... I am dangerous, Sherlock. I can make you forget... all of it.”

****

“ _John_.” Sherlock leans forward in his chair, letting his eyes roam over John’s body, looking for the clues he’s missed. “Tell me.”

****

John wets his lips, turns his head away from Sherlock. “There’s not much to tell really. My... I guess you’d call it a grandfather, was a dragon... well... yeah... he was a dragon. Demanded a lot of virgin sacrifices. This was maybe eighth or ninth century, well it depends on how you count time... anyway he didn’t eat _all_ of them. One survived, and... well apparently the whole thing made her insane, but her family hid her away...” John coughs, twists in his chair, clearly contemplating vaulting over the armrest and bolting from the room. Sherlock forces his gaze to remain steady, fixed on John’s face, even an instant of inattention and John will undoubtedly disappear. “My father didn’t present until... well... much later. He was well over a century... and of course he didn’t know anything about his father... beyond the dragon aspect, and his mother wasn’t... able to help. It was different then, you could live as a hermit... and people didn’t bother you. He moved around like that for a couple centuries... leaving places when it became obvious that the crazy old man on the hill... wasn’t getting any older. By then he’d sorted out the... influences needed to hide what he really was.” John fidgets, lifts his empty tea mug and sets it back down, taps his finger on the rim. “Eastern Europe and Russia mostly. Here occasionally... when Harry and I were young. He wasn’t a very nice man. He had his share of runs from pitchfork-wielding mobs.” John smiles and it is _almost_ the smile Sherlock saw when John had admitted to killing the cabbie, this one sends a shiver through Sherlock.

****

“You expect me to believe that your father is a millennia-old part dragon?”

****

“Not in the slightest.”

****

“Then why... oh. You are going to tell me all this, and if it is true, you think you can make me forget. And if it isn’t... you have distracted me, hopefully put me off the whole idea, and given yourself an amusing story to tell Lestrade.”

****

“This is one story I won’t be putting on the blog.” John’s eyes are cool and dark when they meet Sherlock’s, greener than Sherlock has ever seen them. The ripple is back, slower moving than before, it pushes at the edges of Sherlock’s mind, making his fingers numb.

****

“John. Please don’t. John. Don’t go.” Crashing certainty, pure knowing. John means not only to erase their last conversation but his entire existence from Sherlock’s memory. The fear, not that John has been telling the truth, but that John will be gone, and Sherlock will not even know he existed. He feels connections severed, his body being wrested from his control one vertebrae at a time. Sherlock lashes out, lurches from his chair and flops, graceless as a landed sea creature. Lands mercifully on John’s lap, crushing the paper between them before he slides to the floor, curling helpless around John’s feet. “Please, don’t... I need you... John.”

****

“You don’t though... you really don’t. You were fine before me. You will be fine again without me. Better even. I’ll take everything from you. Tell Lestrade that I’ve had enough and that you’ve deleted me. You’ll find someone new for the upstairs room and go on being you.”

****

Sherlock tries to claw at the hem of John’s trousers, tries to close his eyes, the darkness just increases the speed of the deletion. “I’d have died. I’d have taken that pill and died, you saved me… please, John.”

****

“You wouldn’t have… you’d never have gone in without… something.”

****

“There wasn’t anything before you. I’d have done it and died twitching… before you there was nothing to stop me. He’d have killed me at the pool… maybe Mrs. Hudson too… or Lestrade.”

****

“No… you’ll be fine. Better. Lestrade will watch out for you. If I stayed I’d be the one to kill you… eventually.”

****

A tear slides down Sherlock’s cheek, he knows what happened... everything is still there, except the mysterious death of the cabbie is actually a mystery. Chunks of dialogue missing from the screenplay of his memory, a meal eaten alone and in silence. “Please, John. I don’t want this. I need… I’d rather it was you.”

****

Sherlock tries, studies the way John’s sock has bunched around his ankle, the fine hairs on his leg showing beneath the hem of his trousers, tries to hold onto something of John so that he will know after and be able to find John again, restore his memory and make John see the truth.

“You’d rather it was me… what?” John shifts slightly and Sherlock’s stomach rolls, nausea rising up unbidden.

****

“Something… will happen eventually. I’ve known that for ages. I’d rather it was you.”

****

The laugh is nothing at all like John’s normal amused chuckle; dark and deep and completely outside of Sherlock’s experience of John. “That’s just like you. Thank you, Sherlock, for proving me right after all. You’d rather it was me that was the end of you… but what about me? Having to live with myself, yeah… that’s easy enough. I destroy everything I love and have to keep on. At least if I leave you now you will have a chance.”

****

“I won’t… please, John. Just take the desire… stay and make me forget it.”

****

John leans over, meeting Sherlock’s eyes for the first time since this began, eyes fully dark green, roiling emerald fire where once there had been a gentle gaze. “That’s still forgetting about _me_ , Sherlock.”

****

****************

****

When Mrs. Hudson finds him on the floor, curled in a ball with the rug from the back of John’s chair balled under his chin, he can’t explain the relief that he feels at the automatic “Where’s John?” that falls from his lips.

****

“He said something about his sister… he’s been gone for hours. How long have you been on the floor?”

****

Sherlock bounds to his feet already digging in his pockets, searching for his mobile, the rug still over his shoulders. “He left me this way, how should I know how long it has been?”

****

“Why would he do that?”

****

Relief washes through Sherlock again, sourceless and nearly shattering in its intensity. “I’ve no idea.”

 


	2. After we had capsized

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John runs away and has a think. All the backstory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to consultingsmartass for the beta. 
> 
> Mentions of tentacles and spousal abuse.

John goes to war to die. It is, it has been, a handy way to vanish and reappear without raising any suspicions, and there is always a war somewhere. He’s been careful, generally, he’s actually accomplished with a variety of weapons. It had taken, well... a lot to finally put Father in the ground. John doesn’t particularly want to experiment with his own mortality. He’s been wounded, at times severely, and he knows that he heals faster than his fully human counterparts. He doesn’t enjoy the healing process. The shift in warfare to ranged weapons… well he doesn’t have any defenses against bullets, he’s sadly not telekinetic. The one that had brought him home from Afghanistan had torn through his shoulder and the uppermost tentacle on his left side. He’d had to, and he isn’t proud of it, he’d glamoured Bill Murray into helping him and then forgetting about the tentacle. John had been vaguely… it had been disquieting when the tentacle had grown back, he’d wondered if it would… certain species of octopus can regenerate limbs. He’d tried not to think too long on what that meant about his own genetics.

****

It makes him nostalgic for the early days when it was only a matter of walking onto a field and hacking and slashing at people who hacked and slashed back, ducking a blow that wouldn’t have landed anyway and falling down. Easier to avoid being trampled if he could manage to land face up, the occasional bit of glamour to push charging horses and men away from him. Very rarely, when he thought about it, he would smirk and imagine himself the inventor of the stunt double.

****

He’d occasionally find himself going to war even when he didn’t need to disappear. It was more exciting than the alternatives; being a peasant farmer or the hermit on the hill only held so much attraction. He spent as much time as he could travelling. Father had taught him basics of survival, the glamours and psychic tricks necessary to maintain his human form. He learned more from whatever mystics he came across, Yoga, various forms of martial arts. And practice. Harry and Father might have enjoyed the rush of evading the pitchfork-and-torches-mobs, but after the first couple times it failed to hold John’s attention.

****

He tried, wherever possible to remain emotionally distant from the causes of war. To remind himself that it was generally one group of humans demanding territory or religious agreement from another group of humans. He didn’t think that he was particularly above it, just that it shouldn’t in the long run make any difference to him. despite his ulterior motive of resetting his life, he allowed himself some level of camaraderie with his fellow soldiers.

****

It creeps up on him, the driving need to protect his friends. Nearly swamps him the first time one of his comrades rushes to his aid when he falls. He rallies and they stand, back to back until the horns sound victory and retreat. The sense of panic doesn’t fade when they leave the field, he tries to drown it in the celebration that follows. The certainty that no matter what he does these men will die, balanced against the knowledge that his actions could delay that certainty.

****

He’d never bothered much with choosing sides, given his limited involvement in everyday politics. It became more important as time went on, and people… well people got worse, or possibly better at being evil all on their own. John reset three times during the Second Great War, taking special pleasure in killing Nazis. “ ** _Übermensch_** my arse.”

****

Harry mocked him, spewed the same drivel about being more than humankind. John reminded her that humans had managed to put both their grandfather and Father in the ground. “We aren’t going to win when they decide to come for us, Harry. The only thing we can do is make sure they don’t bother coming at all.”

****

John isn’t at Harry’s. He’s lost track of her, which it isn’t unusual. They spend decades apart sometimes, finding each other periodically… checking in to make sure the other is still breathing. They are fairly certain that their father had no other children, there’s no way to know for sure. Father never was forth-coming. She turns up when she needs help evading authorities, and he swears it is the last time… every time.

****

She’d fooled him this last time. Sworn she’d turned over a new leaf, before he’d left for Afghanistan. John's never really forgiven himself, he’d come home to find Clara… well she’d been barely alive, kept in a sort of mindless drudgery that wouldn’t really be noticeable if you didn’t know what to look for, the side effects of too many glamours to erase the signs of torture and abuse.

****

Sherlock had missed that too, John had glossed over it, and really it was at least partly the drinking. Sherlock didn’t need to know the whole story. John told the lie that replaced the truth, he’d taken Harry’s phone and secreted Clara away. He’d placed her under the protection of a friend of his from _MSF_ , he doesn’t get updates, and that’s good.

****

John stretches on the duvet, he’d love nothing more than to crawl under the covers and stay. The bed is surprisingly good for the kind of hotel room he finds himself in. At the end of a train line, hours from London, far enough that he can’t be tempted, that he has to decide to go back. He could... just not go back to Baker Street. He could just drop everything and pick up somewhere fresh. It is both easier and more difficult now. He’d have to go somewhere, wait out the lifespans of everyone who would remember him in London. There is only so much he can do with the glamour to change his appearance, the constant drain on his attention and energy will eventually break down and he’ll slip, and the last thing he needs is an accidental drop… tentacles everywhere... screaming Tube passengers, etcetera.

****

He knows why he didn’t take all of Sherlock’s memories, knows that he should have just cut and run. He can’t decide if he should go home or stay away. Then again… home. He’s never really thought of anyone… anywhere as home. Sherlock is right, he’ll find a way to end himself, or have himself ended; and it wouldn’t be John’s fault. Except he… he could probably stop it. He could save Sherlock from himself.

****

He scrubs his hands over his face, rubbing at his temples and his hairline. He’s going to stay, he’ll stay and watch Sherlock grow old. Do everything in his power to make sure Sherlock dies, old and wrinkled and peaceful. He’ll watch it all happen, there is nothing else he can do now.

****  
  



	3. The sound of Ancient Voices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ancient One!John tries to balance life with Sherlock.

John circles around London for another day after he decides to go back to Baker street, giving himself a chance to change his mind, to stumble onto some other course of action. Nothing happens, no mysterious black cars, no old friends popping out of the woodwork. _You’ve exhausted your supply of old school chums for this lifetime Watson._

 

So he calls Mrs. Hudson, because he is a coward… or maybe just to be sure he’ll be welcomed back. And she confirms that _he’s_ in a strop because there’s no case on, but he possibly hasn’t noticed that John has been gone. 

 

“Getting to be a near thing though dear, will you be home soon?”

 

“A couple hours, I’m on the train down now.”

 

“That’s good dear, Mrs. Turner and I have cards, I’ve got to… oh the baking.” 

 

The line goes dead in John’s ear and he smiles, twiddling the phone between his fingers as he watches the progressively urban scenery pass him by.

 

Sherlock doesn’t say anything about John having been away, despite John lugging his duffel up the stairs right under Sherlock’s nose. But he also doesn’t show any adverse side effects from John’s memory wipe. He just picks up a conversation John knows nothing about, makes frustrated noises about having to go back over the more important bits. John falls into his chair with a sigh, hiding any traces of a smile under his ‘Yes Sherlock, I’m listening face.’ Getting back up to speed only takes an hour or so, and then John pretends to poke at his blog and Sherlock eventually takes up the violin. 

 

Mrs. Hudson comes up later with tea and a rather obvious flush of victory. She smiles at John and pats his shoulder. 

 

Nothing has changed... well… Sherlock has forgotten that… or at least he is willing to go along with their comfortable fiction.

 

John falls into his ownbed that night with a sigh of contentment and a sense of bone deep happiness. He can do this. He can be the flatmate of Sherlock Holmes, the blogger and the crack shot, the friend and the medic that stitches him up. That can be enough.

 

The next morning doesn’t start with an explosion, or a mad dash around the city. There’s still nothing worthy of Sherlock’s time. John calls in to the service and puts himself back on the rotation, but there’s nothing for him either. John goes down to Speedy’s for a take away breakfast sandwich and the papers and settles in to try and find Sherlock _something._

 

He very nearly gets away with it too, months pass, cases and chases and blog posts that don’t always get actually posted. Cups of tea and take-away meals and shifts at the surgery. Everything is as normal as life with Sherlock Holmes can possibly be. 

 

Post-case sit down meals, always in a different restaurant, one last chance for Sherlock to show off how brilliant he is before he’s off looking for the next case. John enjoys the ritual of it, the bickering over the menu, the way Sherlock leans in over the table to explain the finer points of his deductions, whispering to John in confidence. Sherlock always bolts his food, he eats after cases the same way he does everything else he finds tedious, as quickly and efficiently as possible. 

 

Tonight... Sherlock is savouring every bite, sipping at his wine and laughing at John’s attempts at humour. 

 

John basks in the warmth of Sherlock’s singular attention. Doesn’t say no when Sherlock pours him another glass of wine and then holds up the bottle for a refill. _What the hell, nothing to do tomorrow but sleep off a hangover, we don’t even need to give Lestrade a statement._ John settles into the booth, watching Sherlock over the rim of his glass. “You were brilliant today.”

 

Maybe it is the wine, but Sherlock blushes, just a hint of red in his cheeks, and spilling down his neck. 

 

John leans forward and presses his advantage. “I thought Donovan’s head was going to explode when you opened that secret door. Honestly, who even has secret doors anymore?”

 

“Obvious from the size of the room and the placement of the windows.” Sherlock stammers a bit and the red in his cheeks deepens. 

 

“Fucking… Brilliant.” John smiles as Sherlock coughs and turns away.

 

They eat, quietly for a few minutes until the blush fades from Sherlock’s cheeks.

 

“John.” Sherlock clears his throat and sets down his wine glass. “It… normally this sort of thing is beneath me… but I’ve been informed that it can be…” He fidgets with his unused desert spoon. “It has been a year, nearly… I’m told… since our first case… and of course it’s base sentiment.” It really shouldn’t be possible to pause so much and still speak as quickly as Sherlock does, as though the words are causing him pain and he wants to get them out, or maybe keep them in. “Mrs. Hudson has suggested that we celebrate.”

 

“What… have Lestrade round for another drugs bust?” John smiles as he says it, feeling around the edges of the conversation they are _actually_ having for some clue that they are really, truly having it this time. He feels full to bursting; the wine, the food and his own post-case high making everything warm and perfect. _We’ve been here before… haven’t we John… nothing good can come of this._ He has to close his eyes against the sudden realization that he can’t do this again… as much as he wants to accept the tentative, fragile offer Sherlock is making… _If you let this go you will have to wipe him again. And if you wipe him again this will happen again and then you will be stuck… no better than Harry, only no one will be there to rescue Sherlock from you._

 

All of this and Sherlock is blushing again, stammering about Mrs. Hudson baking and Molly and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson invited Mycroft, but he won’t show his face, but if John thinks it is ridiculous then they can cancel… nothing has been decided yet… all merely Mrs. Hudson’s meddling. 

 

John has to look away, clear his throat and sip some wine… _Coward,_ _you made this bed… you decided to stay… this is what it means to stay… he loves… he thinks he loves you… you’ll destroy him one way or the other._

 

“We’ll do whatever you want, Sherlock. But if Mrs. H. is baking?” John raises an eyebrow, tilts his head to the left a bit and winks. “You could ask her to do a banoffee?”

 

Sherlock’s smile is just a tiny bit wicked.

 

They decide to walk home, the cool-nearly-too-cold of the night drawing the warmth of the wine from them. John can feel Sherlock oscillating beside him… clearly trying to decide if he should make a move, or if it is too risky to kiss John… to wait until they are inside the flat, or to push him against the door to the street. To try something that might be brushed off as ‘continental’ a peck on the cheek before they retire to their separate rooms, or to abandon all pretence of friendship and…

 

John turns his coat collar up against the gust of wind that sweeps down Baker Street after them, digs his hands into his pockets and makes plans of his own. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure no one will mind... but the next chapter is going to be pretty heavily pornographic... and kinky.... all the kinky.


	4. All we Care about

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And then there was sex

John hums as Sherlock’s come fills his mouth, Sherlock’s cock twitching, body spasming as John holds him down, bracing his arms against Sherlock’s thighs to pin him on the sofa.

 

“ _John_.”

 

Sherlock manages to make the simple statement of John’s name the most erotic thing John has heard in lifetimes. It helps of course that Sherlock looks ruined, his suit jacket hopelessly wrinkled and pushed down his shoulders, pinning his hands behind him. His shirt, admittedly one of John’s favourites (which is the only thing that stopped John from simply ripping the buttons off), a glorious dark contrast to the bright pink flush and sheen of sweat over Sherlock’s torso.

 

John rides the last of Sherlock’s orgasm, letting up on the pressure of his arms a bit to allow Sherlock to fuck up into his mouth, and then he sucks hard as Sherlock collapses back onto the sofa, drawing another full-body tremor and a deep groan from Sherlock.

 

Another day perhaps he will hold Sherlock in his mouth, suck and lick and tease until Sherlock is hard again. He smiles as he lets Sherlock’s cock slide from between his lips, swallows hard and licks his lips, careful to catch any stray drops of Sherlock’s come and swallow them down.

 

“ _John_.”

 

He tsks, reminding himself not to underestimate Sherlock and gathers the glamour tighter around him, pushing slightly at the edges of Sherlock’s awareness as he leans forward to remove the blindfold and place a chaste kiss on Sherlock’s lips.

 

“John... amazing… let me…” Sherlock breathes against John’s mouth.

 

John presses another kiss against his lips, exhaling against Sherlock’s mouth, radiating warmth and sleep, the heavy weight of post-orgasmic contentment. Strokes his fingers over Sherlock’s temple and down his jaw, even as Sherlock makes an effort to lift his hand and pull John closer to him.

 

“ _Want… John_.”

 

John moves down Sherlock’s body, carefully spreading the glamour as his fingers trace over Sherlock’s chest and skirt around his cock. He can feel Sherlock’s pulse slowing under his fingers, see his breathing even out to approach sleep. But he’s careful, and he has actually gone to medical school in this lifetime, so he doesn’t push Sherlock too far down. Just enough that Sherlock will wake rested and refreshed, even if John leaves him on the sofa for the night.

 

Sherlock sags into the sofa, boneless and relaxed. John catches the side of his head and lowers him gently onto the pillow, manhandles him slowly out of his trousers and pants and lifts his legs onto the couch, trying to arrange his limbs in something like a comfortable sleeping position.

 

He breaks away reluctantly… he’d like nothing more than to wrap himself around Sherlock and sleep himself. Alas the temptation to get off on Sherlock’s sleeping form is far too strong; he wants and if Sherlock is sleeping he doesn’t trust himself not to take. He rips himself free and retreats to Sherlock’s room, pulls the duvet off the bed and bundles it in his arms, resisting the urge to bury his nose in it and inhale.

 

Sherlock looks nearly presentable with the duvet tucked under his chin. Mrs. Hudson won’t be shocked if she comes in before Sherlock wakes in the morning, and it won’t be the first time Sherlock has wandered around the flat without his pants.

 

He lets himself brush a stray curl off Sherlock’s forehead before he pulls away finally and nearly bolts up the stairs to his room.

  
  


 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again apologies for the long hiatus. Real life and such. It feels like a cop-out but I know it isn't, my life went a bit mental, as they do... Now... I appear to be back in form and chugging along nicely.
> 
> As always Consulting_Smartass is my most amazing beta and support. I'm honestly not sure I would still be writing if not for you my dear.


	5. Washed by the Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when John is alone, after.

John slides home the bolts in his door - all four of them - that despite their weight do nothing to keep Sherlock out of the room unless John is in it. He thinks they would only give him warning, a chance to gather the glamour around him before Sherlock burst into the room.

 

He’d given up trying to actually keep Sherlock out of his room because every lock he installed seemed only challenge to Sherlock. _Prove you can open this door. Even though it is obvious John doesn’t want you to_. Sherlock even bullied his way through the glamours, the sense of unease and _wrongness_ , John left behind in his room.

 

It worked just fine on Mrs. Hudson, nothing to cause her concern, just enough to keep her prying to a minimum. They should have worked on Sherlock, and probably would if the man had any sense of self preservation at all.

 

John shudders at the idea of Mrs. Hudson in his room, scrubs his hands across his face. And that is a mistake because his skin reeks of Sherlock, faint traces of sweat and come lingering in the spaces between John’s fingers.

 

John stares at his hands for a moment, remembering how Sherlock had felt in his grip, and then he raises his left hand to his mouth and licks between his first two fingers. The scent and taste of Sherlock is faint but its there, and before John knows what he is doing he’s sucking hard on his fingers and trying to get himself out of this clothes with his right hand.

 

It's more difficult than he imagined and he has to breathe in deeply through his nose. He presses his eyes shut tight and draws in air, trying not to sob around his fingers.

 

This isn't the first time. He's done this before, he can do this again - all that he needs is to remember the taste of Sherlock on his lips. He gives up trying to take off his jumper and concentrates on the fly of the fly of his jeans.

 

John's cock is painfully hard and it’s a relief to wrap his spit-soaked fingers around it. He slides his hand down and cups his balls, tugging them up because all he wants to do is come.

 

He thinks about pushing Sherlock over the kitchen table and taking him without preamble. Thinks that Sherlock would let him after the blow job on the couch. Sherlock had practically begged for it... he would let John do whatever he wanted.

 

John would push into him. Slide in to the hilt, lean down, bend over him… John strokes himself hard and fast, gasping and cursing as his hand loses rhythm and he falls back against the door.

 

“ _Fuck_!”

 

He’s writhing against the constriction of his clothes, but he lets his heartbeat slow to something manageable before he crosses his arms and pulls his jumper over his head. The buttons of his shirt take enough concentration that he’s calm by the time he drops it on the floor. He shucks himself out of his trousers and pants, wincing slightly at the sound of his belt buckle hitting the hardwood floor, but nothing stirs downstairs.

 

His tentacles writhe under the constriction of his leather vest, though he can control them, can direct their movements, can even force them into stillness he wanted something substantial between his temptation and Sherlock. Years ago he’d have been able to make the vest himself; it would have been much cruder but would have accomplished the same end as the one he had found at a bondage store. Despite his control downstairs, the laces of the vest have been pulled tight under the strain of his tentacles trying to free themselves, and he has to move to stand in front of the mirror to loosen them.

 

The top part of the vest peels away as it loosens, first one then three of his tentacles slipping loose and sliding up the back of his neck and into his hairline. He shivers and pulls at the lacing in the last two loops. His tentacles push against the vest and it falls to the floor with a damp sound and the cool air of the room slams into him. He’s soaked, sweat and tentacle-slick trails down his back and over his hips, cool trickles over his super-heated skin. He pushes aside the thought that it has been so long that he’s not even trying to seek out another person, his body is automatically seeking to pleasure itself… and maybe that’s because he knows there’s no one else in the room… but it could also be that the animal part of his lust has forgotten… “ _Fuck_.”

 

He turns away from the mirror and climbs onto his bed, crawling up to the headboard and planting his hands on the metal frame, holding tight until his knuckles turn white. His tentacles don’t need his conscious control to roam over his body, to wrap around his wrists and the headboard until he doesn’t have to hold on anymore, until his head can drop between his shoulders and seeking tendrils can find his lips and push inside.

 

He pushes back and sighs as a tendril writhes its way over the curve of his arse and towards his hole. He wants it to be Sherlock, feels the tentacle thicken and curve to approximate the shape and width of Sherlock’s cock. He moans as the one in his mouth fills out as well, pushing against the back of his throat until he wants to gag on it. A smaller one winds around his cock, undulates in a way that might... if Sherlock ever… it might feel like Sherlock’s hand wrapped around him.

 

John rocks, pulling tight against his hold on the headboard, praying to gods he’s fairly certain are dead and buried for _more, please gods more_ … He wants Sherlock behind him, pushing into him solid and heavy, he wants the slap of Sherlock’s hips against his arse, to bury his face in Sherlock’s lap until he does gag on Sherlock’s cock. He wants to beg Sherlock to fuck him. “ _Harder, please… please Sherlock… fuck me… yeah… that’s it… fuck Sherlock… please!_ ”

 

When he comes it is to the memory of Sherlock fucking his mouth, the incoherent sounds of pleasure, the triumphant feeling of having brought Sherlock to this place, to finally having him. He collapses face-first onto his bed, onto sheets and pillows damp with his drool, sweat and slick. He curls so he’s not directly in the wet spot, tentacles still shivering and rippling as the last waves of orgasm travel the length of his nerve endings.

 

He falls asleep with the mass of his tentacles blanketing him, the weight of them nearly tricking his brain into believing that Sherlock is wrapped around him.

 

 


	6. When The Morning Comes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is unhappy and no one is talking.... but they are masturbating so there is that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not Dead.
> 
> Many thanks again to Consulting Smartass for being the best friend and beta a dirty minded fan writer could ask for

Think about John.

Think about him naked. Think about him naked on the floor of your bedroom. No, not like that… Kneeling, hands behind his back… ridiculous pink plastic handcuffs around his wrists. The kind they give as gifts at hen nights to make boring vanilla women giggle behind their hands. The kind John could break like a twig if he tried. All he'd need to do is twist and they would snap apart in an instant, fall away and he'd be free. 

Think about John, think about him letting you, about him wanting to be there… he'd be able to get up, to walk away and stop this thing you are going to do to him… but he won't… he wants it as much as you do so he'd stay. He can get up, can tell you no. You are evenly matched, he's stronger than he looks, stronger than you gave him credit for at first. If he wanted to go you couldn't stop him. But he doesn't want to go.

Think about standing in front of him, about how good it would feel to look down and see him waiting there for you. Think about taking that final step forward, that moment when there is nothing else that could be happening between you. When he leans forward, and you reach down to card your fingers through his hair. 

It matters a little that you would be naked too, not to start out, but maybe it is morning and you are still in your pyjamas. Impossible to guess, to think about what would have brought you here. That doesn't matter, he's there, you both are… he wants to be and…

You could tell him to open his mouth. Just say the word, "Open." And he'd look up at you then, lick his lips. You would want to look at his eyes, but you'd be watching his lips, the way his tongue lingers just a little. Like he's daring you to make him, but he wants to… and you'd have to do something about your trousers. Open your fly, push the cloth out of the way, all while looking at that tiny dark space between his lips. 

There are so many ways to push into him for the first time. He wants it, he wants you… so he could lean forward, the first sight of your cock bringing him closer, a tentative lick, a tiny noise from both of you. You could curl your fingers around the back of his head and push in all at once, make him gag as the head of your cock fills his airway, pull back just enough to let him breathe.

You could pull back, ask him if it was alright. "Like that?" He'd nod or grunt or just push his face back down on your cock. 

And then you'd fuck his mouth, your hands wrapped around his skull, holding him still while you fucked him until your legs trembled and you wanted to come down his throat.

He'd swallow it if you did, but you could pull out, you could come on his face or his chest. You could tell him to turn over, tell him that he felt so good. "John, take it."

You could make it sound like it wasn't a question, like you were sure… because he'd want it that way. He'd want to be told, to be able to pretend that he didn't have a choice, but he'd lean against the side of your bed, and he'd push back into you because he wants to. 

There'd have to be lube, maybe condoms, maybe not… he trusts you, you trust him… he'd have made you get tested… maybe he doesn't trust you, he probably shouldn't. Either way he's perfect, when you are inside him he's perfect and tight and it feels as though he was made for you.

You'd make him come, wrap your hand around him and contort your bodies until he's full of you while you stroke his cock. He'll tell you after, or maybe he’s told you before, the last time you did this to him, that you fucking his mouth makes him hard, that if he could touch himself while you did it he'd come, just from the feel of you. He'd tell you that he wants you to make him, that he can do it on his own, that half the reason he puts the cuffs on is so you will have to do it for him. He wants it to be you… he wants you.

So you'd whisper in his ear while you touch him. Tell him how tight and wet he is, how good he makes you feel. "Are you close, John?" 

Maybe he'd say your name, maybe he'd beg or ask permission. Maybe he'd groan and drop his head back against you, letting himself go boneless in your grip. 

He'd come in your hands… would you be able to come with him? You'd want to, to come with his body jerking and contracting around you. You want to feel the same thing he's feeling. To be that close to him. 

If you couldn't you'd push him down, prop him up against the bed and fuck him hard and fast, or maybe slow and smooth. You'd fuck him until he was boneless and you'd come inside him. Then you'd pull him back and kiss him. Kiss the lips that opened for you when you asked because they wanted to.

You wouldn't have to tell him that he's yours, he knows. 

Think about John. Think about John wanting you.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to consultingsmartass and a_xmasmurder for the betas... *smooches and smishes to you both*
> 
> I actually did some research, and sort of decided that John is descended from the Dragon in St. George and the Dragon... and that his father is possibly Vlad the Impaler and/or Rasputin.


End file.
